Inevitable

Chris stuck his head out his office door and scanned the bullpen, seeking head that stuck up over almost everyone else's, and finding it when he followed the sound of familiar laughter. His friend was tucked half into the file corner, head down with Josiah and Nathan.

"Buck," he called out, "You got plans this weekend?" Considering it was Friday at 4:00, the likelihood was high, but Buck shrugged nonchalantly.

"Nothing important."

"You have enough stuff out at my place to tide you over for a couple of days?"

Buck shrugged again. "Guess so."

"How about getting JD to take your truck home, and riding out with me? I'll bring you back to work Monday, or back to town whenever."

Buck looked positively curious, now, and Chris couldn't blame him. He couldn't say himself why he was doing it this way, so casually, so publicly. But one glance around the room answered that question for him; Vin had parked one hip on the edge of Ezra's desk and folded his arms across his chest. The look on the man's face would have been inscrutable to anyone else, but Chris read it well enough. He offered his own look in return. *I'm sorry…*

"Yeah, all right." Buck broke the spell with those words, and Chris nodded his oldest friend's way.

Chris stood there a moment longer, watched as Buck went to his desk and picked up his phone, no doubt to cancel a date. With his free hand, Buck dug into the pocket of his suit pants--he'd been to the AUSA's office today--and pulled out his keys, pitching them to JD who'd followed the conversation and caught them without even a question.

Vin had turned away by now, headed down the hall toward the bathrooms, Ezra had ignored the whole exchange and continued to work on a report, and Josiah and Nathan stayed by the long row of file cabinets and continued their conversation without Buck. Chris ducked back inside his office, leaned against the wall and wondered what in fucking hell he'd just done.

Just after four thirty, Vin knocked on the door and stuck his head in. "I'm takin' off," he said evenly.

Chris just nodded, feeling a little like shit and a little confused. "Yeah, okay. Vin, I--"

"Don't, Chris." The response was immediate and firm. "It's what it is."

Chris just nodded, understanding without having to like it. "You all right?"

A smile crossed Vin's face, genuine and warm. "As long as you don't make me move my horse, I am."

In spite of himself, Chris chuckled. "It didn't mess us up, Cowboy."

Vin hesitated, his hand still on the doorknob, then nodded decisively. "Okay then, see you Monday."

Okay. "Yeah."

Vin closed the door softly behind him, and Chris stared at it for a long moment, as the impact of what he was doing sank in. No, Vin hadn't messed up their friendship, and no, this wouldn't mess up his friendship with Buck. They had weathered so much over the years, at worst this would just be a hideous idea that they'd laugh about in years to come. At best?

He had work to do. He had a team to run, reports to make, cases to consider. The next month was going to be a bitch, so impacted that he was actually glad it had been quiet for the last week. Not like he was caught up on his paperwork, but then, he never was. He opened a police report on a double-homicide, reviewing ballistics information because they needed to work backwards, to find this gun, and lost himself in the job.

It was almost seven when he noticed that the sun had set and the city had lit up. Shit. He hadn't meant to get quite *that* lost. He shut down his computer, locked up his files and grabbed his jacket. Everyone was gone but Buck, who sat alone in the bullpen with what looked like a romance novel in his hand, long legs stretched out and feet on the corner of his desk. The slate blue suit pants had a bit of a sheen to them, like silk in the weave, and Chris let his eye wander up to Buck's skinny waist, the white linen shirt, broad shoulders. The tie, complementary and only a little loud, was loosened, making Buck look scruffy and sophisticated at the same time.

"You don't get enough stories out of real life?" he asked. It struck him as funny, Buck reading those things, like Rosie Greer crocheting or Joe Namath wearing panty hose.

Buck looked up and smiled. "Huh? Oh. It's Grisham," he said by way of explanation, and put the book down. "You ready?"

"Yeah. Lost track of time. You could've come and got me."

Buck just shrugged a universal "whatever" that was his response to a great many things other people took personally.

"You ain't in a hurry to get out of that suit?"

Buck had put his jacket back on and automatically adjusted his tie, and now he looked like an ad in a magazine, except for the mustache.

"Nah."

They got to the truck without comment, and Buck softened the ground with casual anecdotes about office life. So and so on team such and such was after this woman, another woman in management was making eyes at this man, the visiting close quarters training instructor was fantastic, and Chris should let the guy throw him around on the mat a few times. They'd left the city center far behind and were in thinning suburbs before Buck asked the dreaded question.

"So what're we doing this weekend?"

"You hungry?" Chris countered.

"Starved. What're we doing this weekend?"

Feeling a slight flush creep up his neck, Chris glanced over at his friend. Buck didn't have a clue, that much was certain. "You mind if we eat first?"

Buck looked long and slow at him, and Chris' eyes watered, he stared so hard at the road. "Nah."

"You want to stop somewhere for dinner?" Though the options between here and the ranch were McDonalds, Big Boy and a Red Lobster. Unless they drove on past 56th Avenue and went to Larry's Lickin's. Great burgers. Great everything. Sticky floors and in his suit, Buck would stick out like a sore thumb.

"Nah."

"Okay then."

Buck picked up the light conversation again, and Chris joined in after awhile, filling Buck in on the flipside of a few of the more political stories, and the status of a current investigation.

At the house, Chris pulled out frozen hamburger and canned spaghetti sauce. Buck went to the back bedroom to change clothes, returned barefoot in jeans and an old tee shirt, and joined in with a pot of water and the frying pan. They doctored the can with vegetables and meat, covered their helpings with Parmesan cheese, and ate on the deck. It was dark enough, now, that the mosquitoes wouldn't be out.

Only after the plates sat in the dishwasher and the leftovers in the fridge did Buck ask again. "Chris?"

"You want a drink?" It was the last delaying tactic, he'd promised himself that. Buck chuckled at his discomfort, even though he didn't know its cause, and followed him to the bar.

Whiskey glass in hand, Chris ushered Buck into the living room and followed him to the sofa, breaking their usual pattern. Buck's eyebrows rose. The poor bastard really didn't have a clue.

Not that he should. Not that after almost twenty years of friendship, more than one conversation on the subject and a marriage, he'd have any reason to at all.

Chris didn't know any way in to this conversation, except just to say it. "Did you know Vin's bi?" he asked.

Buck didn't look surprised, and that universal shrug showed itself again. "I thought, maybe. Never asked him. Wasn't my business."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I… he…" Chris ran down, and abruptly Buck looked shocked, almost pissed.

"You and Vin?"

"No!" Damn it, why did Buck have to leap to conclusions like that? *Because you're not telling him anything different, Larabee.* "No," he said again. "But he made a move on me."

"And?" Buck asked neutrally.

"What do you mean, 'and'? I turned him down." He'd always turned these kinds of offers down, always wondered what it was about himself that made men so willing to make them.

Buck didn't say anything, and Chris watched him collect himself, knew the second before Buck raised the whiskey glass that he would, that it would be emptied in one long swallow. The tiny shiver of alcohol burn rippled across Buck's face and down his throat. The glass met the coffee table with a definite thud. "Chris, what the hell is going on?"

"He made a pass at me. I turned him down. But I realized I needed to talk to you about a couple of things. One, bi men crawl out of the woodwork around me." Buck snorted on cue, and Chris was secretly grateful. It was true, and he and Buck had joked about it more than once. "Two, trying something like that wasn't outside the realm of possibility anymore." It was Chris' turn to swallow down his whiskey. False courage, he knew only too well. "And three, if I ever did do something like that, there's only one guy I'd do it with."

He looked from the empty distortion of his highball glass and right into Buck's eyes.

And finally, Buck got the message. The wary look faded, his mouth softened into something dangerously like joy. Buck blinked once, slowly, and like windshield wipers, when his lids lifted, Chris could see farther, more clearly than he had before.

*Step one. Didn't make a fool of yourself.* Chris had no idea how he'd do on step two, but he smiled back, sucked in a breath. "Yeah, pal."

"Damn." Buck ran his fingers through his hair, obviously taken aback. Then he did what Chris had expected him to, tried to talk Chris out of it. "I'm flattered, Chris. I really am. But uh, are you sure it's a good idea? Now? I mean, we've been friends since we were kids and it was never a good idea before, and just because Vin's put a thought in your head is no reason to get a wild hair up your ass and switch hit."

Chris shook his head. He barely contained his trembling, because shit yes, he was afraid. He was afraid of something being so new now that he was so old, afraid he'd try it and hate it after all. But the one thing he wasn't afraid of was this turning into a problem between them. "The thing with Vin, it didn't happen yesterday. It happened three weeks ago. I've thought about it for three weeks. I bought a couple of books. I researched." He ignored Buck's barely suppressed amusement, and forged ahead. "I'm not being reactionary. There isn't gonna be another woman for me, Buck."

"You don't know that--"

"Yeah," he cut in, "I do. Not someone like her. And, no offense, you've eliminated God knows how many women without finding the one. But you've been right by me through everything. Whatever you may think, Buck, I'm not being hard headed. I'm just thinking, maybe we can give this a try." He cleared his throat. "Give us a try."

Buck shot off the couch and headed for the back of the house. "I'm gonna get my boots, let's go feed the horses."

In the grand scheme of things, that reaction was pretty much the last one Chris had prepared for. "What?"

Buck's words echoed back up the hallway. "They have to eat, don't they? And I need to think."

Buck was right. The combination of routine and steady, familiar animals went a long way toward making everything feel normal. He knew Buck would need to adjust, and that had been the hardest part in the scenarios he'd played out in his head, this time between the admission and the action. Buck put Don Juan in halter, led him from his stall, and combed the gray's coat until it shone. Chris found a stale candy bar in the feed bin and broke it into pieces, throwing a chunk into each animal's trough along with sweet feed and hay.

Then he stopped to wait, one foot up on a stall rail, and watched Pony eat, lost himself in the long, dense line of muscles working along the horse's neck, the way the withers twitched and the right hoof would lift an inch off the ground and resettle every few seconds. It was a nervous habit, the vet had said, so he observed it as just another aspect of the animal's individual identity. The horse would be ten next year, not quite middle aged for his breed. He was healthy, and had turned into quite the riding--

A hand pressed between his shoulder blades, and he jumped so fast that Pony threw his head up and backed away.

"Jesus, Buck!" he cursed.

Buck just laughed, a soft indulgent sound. "Hey. Listen…"

"You need me to take you back to town?" he offered, far preferring to offer than be asked.

Buck grimaced at him. "Would you slow down? I just need to think about it, all right? I mean yeah, I could jump into bed with you, but I haven't had three weeks to get used to the idea. I'm thinking I should."

Three weeks? Shit. "So what am I supposed to do?" he grumbled. He'd kind of hoped Buck would just jump into bed, so they wouldn't have to talk, or something.

The shrug. "I guess you're gonna do what you always do, stud--suffer your blue balls or jerk off."

Chris sneered. "Very funny."

But Buck just stared at him, and something in those eyes, something of the happy, speculative breeder in Buck made Chris' breath go short with equal parts arousal and intrigue. He licked his lips. Buck's mouth quirked into the tiniest of grins. Chris couldn't hold the gaze and glanced away for a second; all he could wonder was whether that thick mustache would feel like kissing a hairbrush, or like being rubbed with a mink mitten.

He sucked in an anticipatory breath, but before he could move forward, Buck's hand came up to cup his cheek, and a calloused thumb marked the line from the edge of his nose to the damp corner of his mouth.

He cleared his throat. "Buck?"

Buck licked his lips, asked carefully, "You really sure?"

Buck must have felt his chin start down on the affirmative nod, because before he finished it, Buck had bent down, his head blocking the glare of the floodlight mounted in the corner of the barn.

The mustache reached him before Buck's mouth did, neither hairbrush nor mink. More like sheepskin, or raw cotton, soft with an edge of natural prickle. Then Buck's lips touched his, soft and nothing else. The kiss was gentle, close-mouthed, defined by pressure and warmth rather than saliva and tongue, and Chris felt a strange, startled joy as his body told him in no uncertain terms that it could handle more.

He reached out, grasping Buck's biceps to steady himself and keep them close, and pressed in more firmly, opening his lips just enough to slide his tongue out, wetting his friend's lips and teasing at their closed seam. *Let me in.*

Buck shook off his grip and wrapped strong arms around his back, squeezing him tight. His head was forced up as their chests pressed together, as Buck tilted his head and opened his mouth in reply… Cotton-soft-brush of mustache tickled over his cheek. Wet-silk slide of tongue met his own, well schooled and tame. *That won't last long,* the thought floated by. The last word he'd use to describe Buck Wilmington was "tame."

Buck ended the kiss and pulled away, and a big hand returned to cup Chris' cheek. His friend's breathing was already up; Buck turned on like a light switch, always had. Hell, he could get hard watching the half-time show when Dallas played Denver. But it was different, a whole other story, to feel Buck getting hard for him. He brushed his hips forward, just to bring their bodies back into contact, to feel the hard bar of Buck's erection where it pressed against the jeans.

He wasn't a kid anymore. And he wasn't ignorant. He'd thought about this, palmed his own cock and imagined what it would be to palm Buck's. He'd thought about hairy legs and hard muscle, about a flat chest and fifty extra pounds and beard shadow. And while, in general, those thoughts did nothing for him, putting Buck's name before each detail had made it all interesting. Reasonable.

Necessary.

"Uh," Buck replied, eyes darting nervously around the barn.

"Put Don up," Chris offered, trying to give his friend some room. Damn it, Buck had given him almost twenty years. He could give Buck a couple of weeks.

They left the barn together, watched CNN then the local news at ten to see what, if anything, related to their caseload, and Chris went to bed alone.

Shrugging out of his jeans and into boxers and an old tee shirt, he listened to the muted sounds of Buck in the larger spare bedroom, the room that had been Chris' when he was a teenager. Vin used it when he stayed up now, and any of the guys who could get to it first, really; it had the best mattress. But he had always sort-of thought of as Buck's.

Jesus, he was an asshole. Why had he been too scared to notice the importance of things like that, before? And why had he felt the need to lock Buck up here with him, to keep him from having an easy escape plan?

The sounds slowed, then stopped altogether; Buck had undressed for bed, probably thrown his barely-worn jeans on the old rocker and crawled under the covers. Chris turned onto his side, cradling his head in an upraised arm. He couldn't have scared Buck, and even if his friend decided there were more reasons against than for, they'd be okay. They'd weathered so much, and come close to this before, closer he suspected than Buck had ever known. They'd be okay.

He had no awareness of sliding into sleep.

He knew when he woke though, why he'd done it; someone was in his bedroom, the soft tread of bare feet and the rustle of clothes unnatural enough in his solitary world to rouse him.

"It's just me," Buck said softly. "I've thought about it."

Chris' heart thudded in his chest and he looked at the clock. He'd needed twenty years, and Buck had needed two hours. He should have taken a shower before he'd gone to bed.

He reached to turn on the reading lamp, and just looked at his friend standing inside the door. Buck was naked, holding his jeans in his hand, his body calm and dick soft. A preoccupied frown shadowed his face.

"I'm glad," Chris acknowledged, and lifted the covers. Goose bumps rose when cooler air wafted in. They faded just as quickly when Buck, still frowning, propelled himself forward and slid in beside him.

Buck propped on an elbow and just looked at him. Chris mirrored the position and waited out the scrutiny.

"You still think you know what you're doing?" Buck asked, his eyes sober and intent.

Chris wouldn't go that far. He eased forward and matched them at chest, belly, groin, and expelled a startled breath when Buck lifted a leg and settled its heavy weight over his hip. They'd hugged before, camping maybe. Cold nights spent outside. Not like this. Not with Buck's soft genitals pressed against his, not with just the thin barrier of his boxers and an old tee shirt between what his life had been, and what it was about to become.

"Yeah," he said anyway. "I'm sure." To prove it, he stroked the flat of his hand up Buck's broad back, from the curve of butt to the sharp jut of shoulder blades. Buck's hand snaked beneath his tee shirt to curve around the edge of his waist.

"Okay," Buck's soft voice tickled his temple. "If we figure out it's a mistake, we quit. No harm done."

"Don't worry, Buck." It didn't seem fair, that Buck was the one who felt on the spot right now.

Buck shrugged, and kneaded gently at his waist. "Hard not to. I mean, you've read books." The sarcasm was clear.

Chris frowned. "What the hell was I supposed to do?" he grumbled, excited and afraid. "Hire somebody to show me the ropes?"

"You could have asked me," Buck offered, but Chris just smiled at the thought.

"I needed to know what regular people do, Buck. Not Super Fly." He lifted his leg, threading it between Buck's. The unfamiliar cock twitched and rolled against his thigh, pulsing as it began to fill. *Old Faithful*… Buck thrust against him automatically, easily, and a tingle of anticipation ran from the friction on his skin right up through his belly.

"So what do regular people do, then?" Buck asked.

Chris chuckled. He'd left himself wide open, for that. "Well," he said, wry, "from what I've read, a hell of a lot."

Buck smiled, and Chris thought about the wealth of Buck's bedroom experience, the stories Buck had told, the variety and breadth of his tastes. He reached out and let his fingertips trace a line from the soft hollow at his friend's throat, down the center of his sternum, over the sparse chest hairs. He eased back a few inches and followed their pattern, applying a little more pressure where bone gave way to diaphragm, pausing to circle the pad of his thumb in the barely indented navel. Buck's belly quivered and Chris slid his hand down another inch, flattening his palm against the smooth, warm flesh. His fingers rested just along the horizontal line that separated belly from groin, bare skin from wiry hair.

He licked his lips and leaned forward, and that soft prickle of mustache brushed his nose just before the soft satin of lips brushed his mouth. It was slow, and gentle. Buck's body went still, attentive. Ready to react smoothly to wherever Chris might steer this experience. *Thank God he's so accommodating.*

The press of their mouths, damn different but more familiar than he'd expected, felt intensely good, alive, arousing him fast. Buck's arm encircled him, and a hand traced the knobs of his spine almost to the crack of his ass, then fingers rubbed the tiny indentation of a dimple above his butt cheek. Softer, more gently, the hand spread over the curve of his ass and caressed him, anchored his body for a gentle, experimental thrust of hips.

He ended the kiss and drew back. Buck's eyes were dark and serious. Patient. Intent. Chris felt as if he'd held a key for years, and only today found the courage to turn the lock and open this door between them.

"Let me make love to you," he breathed.

Buck's hand tightened on his butt and tugged, as the bigger man rolled onto his back and brought Chris to lie half atop him. Fingers threaded into his hair and brought his head down for a soft, sweet press of mouths. So quiet he could barely hear it, so clear he would always remember, Buck whispered, "You already are."

7 - 7 - 7

Dawn came early. They'd almost met it together, but Buck, exhausted and sated, had slipped into sleep half an hour before. Chris watched the early sun smooth out shadows in the room, watched the way Buck's face twitched and snuffled in sleep. The snoring was familiar enough, but even that was quiet, tired-seeming.

He smiled, thinking about the last few hours and about how much, and how little, had changed.

He should have known it would be fun to play with an erect dick; he'd played with his own enough times, over the years. And actually seeing the look in Buck's eyes, the pleasure on that expressive face, the love there.... He should have known being on the receiving end of Buck's desire would feel good, since he'd seen enough women go weak-kneed, for it.

The scents and subtle movements had been new, yet familiar, and a piece of him sat somewhere above his brain, amazed at the easiness of it all. Kissing a cock. Nuzzling the soft vulnerability of testicles. Trusting Buck's body without fearing it, so that the first reflexive thrust of dense masculine muscle that had raised Buck's hips and pushed Buck's erection further into his mouth amused him, aroused him, and didn't startle.

God, his lover's body was so responsive. No wonder Buck loved to fuck so much, if he felt half as much as he appeared to. Soft laughter and hard steel, tender touches and smooth inner walls, clinging and clutching at his fingers and later his cock, like warm damp tissue. And so much love.

He couldn't believe he'd forgotten to buy condoms. Couldn't believe how grateful he'd been that Buck liked to be prepared anytime, anywhere, and had donated his only Trojan to Chris' education, and had let him go first. They'd need to go to the store today, and buy more. Maybe buy stock in the company, if their pleasure last night was any standard to measure by.

Chris looked again at his lover before he eased out of bed, eager to watch the early sun paint the hills. He took the topmost blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders, padding naked to the living room and throwing the curtains wide. It couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes before he sensed a presence behind him, turned to see Buck in his briefs, standing in the doorway. He felt his face fight between a frown and a smile. "You look silly in those," he breathed, nodding his head toward the underwear.

Buck ducked his head a little, said carefully, "I didn't want to surprise you."

The care Buck took of him, had always taken, tightened his throat. "You think you naked can surprise me?" he asked, moving across the room. He reached out, cupped the softened package in his hand and squeezed gently through the charcoal-gray cotton. "I've seen your dick nearly as much as I've seen my own, dumb ass."

"Yeah," Buck said, flushed but smiling, "but not after you've sucked it. Thought it might look different to you now."

Chris slid his hands around Buck's waist and past the elastic in back, sliding his hands gently over the smooth, soft curves of buttock. "It probably will." He grinned. "After all, I'm beginning to appreciate it properly."

Buck bent down, and Chris tasted fresh toothpaste that he prayed overrode his own breath. Seemed to, the way Buck kept on, the kiss long and meditative and sweet. The mustache was definitely growing on him.

When Buck drew back, there was an added depth to the normal contentment in his eyes; they sparkled like sun on water, and his obvious effort not to smile was stupidly endearing.

"What are you doin' up?" Buck asked. "Watching the day start?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Can I watch with you?"

"As long as you promise to stop asking, and start just doing again," he said, trying and failing for "gruff." Buck was being so accommodating, and Chris had appreciated it at first, but even after their few short hours in this new territory, enough was enough.

Buck smiled. "Yeah, okay. Gimme your blanket."

"Get your own!"

"Nah," Buck said, tugging hard until Chris reluctantly gave it up; it was freezing in here. Buck threw it around his own shoulders, then hustled Chris back to the windows. "There's plenty here for both of us," Buck murmured, ducking down to breathe the words along his neck. Then Buck stepped right against him, his firming shaft planted dead-center in the small of Chris' back, the cotton between their skins still making him smirk, and wrapped the blanket around him from behind, folding it around them both like wings.

Chris swallowed hard and leaned back into the embrace. This was what mornings would be like. This was what the rest of his life would be like, with no worries about courtship ending and reality setting in; courtship had been over between them since college. Buck's hands rubbed at his belly and Chris covered them with his own. Best not start anything until they'd gotten in supplies.

But then, something had already started, a slow burn kindling in his pelvis, obviously surpassed by the firm thrust of Buck's erection at his back. "You, uh, you sure you don't have any more condoms tucked away up here?"

Buck chuckled breathily. "No hurry, Chris. We've got all weekend."

Chris took one last look at the land, at the sharp shadows cast by the brilliant yellow-white of a rising mountain sun, then turned around in Buck's arms. "We've got a hell of a lot more time than that," he promised, and tilted his head back for another kiss.

7 - 7 - 7

Sunday afternoon saw Chris tired and sated, sore in places that made him smirk to think on, and very much in love. That feeling hadn't changed so much from his feelings of last week or last year, really; it had just opened up. Broadened. It felt familiar, achingly so. Lying against each other on the sofa, hands clasped, watching an old movie on TV, Chris couldn't keep his eyes from wandering to the built-in bookshelves, and the photographs Buck had refused to let him pack away.

"You think she'd mind?" Buck asked softly, his voice low like he was in a church.

Chris flushed, embarrassed to be caught. He hadn't meant to think of Sarah, but she was the last person he'd sat this way with, the last person he'd felt anything like this about.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"No, don't be," Buck said, earnest. A pause stretched, while the truth settled with them. "So, do you think she'd mind?"

Chris turned toward Buck and looked at all the love in his eyes and answered impulsively. "I think she's probably pissed that I waited this long."

Buck rolled a little, and wrapped an arm around his waist. "You're lying, but I like it," he said, rising arousal deepening his voice.  "You want to make out on the couch?"

Chris smiled, and turned into the touch. "Bet your ass."

Buck moved again, pressing him back into the cushions. "Bet yours."

An hour later, Chris decided he was lucky they hadn't started this when they were kids; they were wearing each other out even at their ages, so they'd have killed each other with the stamina of youth.

"We need a break," he muttered, yawning, exhausted, but unwilling to let Buck's solid weight roll off him.

"Do not."

"'Do not'? If that's all you've got left of your debate skills, pal, we *really* need a break. Come on, let's go get some air."

When they got back, they brought in and fed the animals, made dinner, ate at the table and took beers into the den to catch the news. By mutual if silent agreement, they actually kept their clothes on, and didn't undress until they went to bed for the night.

Under the covers, he found himself turning naturally into the curve of Buck's body, and with all his musings over the years, and the near-constant imaginings the past three weeks, he'd never have predicted that. But they'd spent so many long hours refitting themselves to each other, doing anything else already felt wrong. They'd spent long hours in this bed, discovered things he had imagined before but never realized could be so good, even found a few things he wasn't sure he liked yet but wasn't willing to rule out entirely. He hadn't found anything about Buck that was unwelcome.

"So," he said, trying and failing to suppress a yawn, "what do you wanna do now?" He was tired, but he was desirous too, of the look in Buck's eyes and the way the blue went cloudy and dark, of the passion that tightened Buck's muscles and flushed his skin when they were intimately joined.

"Sleep?" Buck suggested, and tightened his arms.

"Is the honeymoon over already?"

A kiss pressed against his temple. "What do you think?"

"I don't know," Chris said, a smile tugging at his mouth. He found his hand sliding back and forth over the smooth, tantalizing curve between waist and buttock. "I'm not the one who suggested sleeping."

"Well, I just figured," Buck breathed, "it's after midnight and we have to go to work tomorrow." A hand stroked meditatively up and down his back. "And I wanted to hold you for awhile before I have to let you go."

Chris drew in a long, steadying breath. He'd forgotten what a romantic Buck could be. What a romantic *he* could be, because the tender tone brought up so much emotion he was afraid his voice would tremble when he spoke. "You don't have to let me go," he countered softly. "I'll be right there."

"It's not the same," Buck replied. "We'll be working. Everybody'll be around."

It wouldn't be the same. Chris was a realist, after all, and they were federal agents in chain of command. "We're telling the team," he promised.

Buck tensed, and his hand stopped moving on Chris' back. "You don't think we ought to wait a little while, just to be sure you're really... sure?"

Chris frowned. "I'm sure."

"But you've only been on this side of the street for a couple of days," Buck argued, and Chris felt a tension rise inside him; Buck was trying to protect him again, talk him out of it.

He crawled over the bigger body and snapped on the lamp behind Buck's head. Crawling back over, ignoring the oomph when he braced himself on Buck's stomach, he stared hard at the shadowed face before him.

"Buck, you told me when I was with Sarah, that you could see it. That you knew how I felt just by looking at my face. You remember that?"

Buck's brow creased. "Yeah..."

"Well look at my face now, Buck, and tell me what you see."

Buck frowned. "Chris, it's not the same, it's--"

"Look at my face, Buck," he said doggedly, "and tell me what you see."

Buck's mouth set in a longsuffering line, and Chris watched his friend's eyes -- not friend anymore, more than friend, always more than friend, because he rarely gave friends the grief he gave Buck -- track over his face. He waited quietly, patiently, until the dark eyes darted left and right, suddenly nervous.

"What do you see, Buck?" he demanded.

"I don't know." Buck rolled then, and turned off the lamp.

Buck knew. Chris was sure of it. He let gravity pull him to his back, glared at the shadowed ceiling. "What did you see, Buck?" he asked again. He could sense the man's agitation even though their bodies were both as still as stones.

A minute passed. Maybe more.

"What did you see?"

And into the quiet room rolled a long sigh, of what Chris could only hope was surrender. "What did I see?" Buck asked, his angry, defensive voice barely more than a whisper. "Something too good to be true."

Chris moved as need swamped him, as his body remembered why lovemaking was so damned important; it was communication, of things for which there weren't words, of feelings that demanded the most intimate and vulnerable of expressions. He rolled, pressing close, sliding as much of their skin into contact as was physically possible.

"You know me too well to believe that," he muttered, holding tight. "I'm grouchy and short tempered and I like things my own way. This ain't gonna be heaven."

Slowly, Buck relaxed beneath him, tension seeming to pour out of him like water from a glass. Chris felt his face touched, held in the dark. Felt the warm breath and the mustache a second before he felt Buck's mouth, and he recognized the kiss: desperate, needing, joyful, hungry, like as long as they had skin between them they could never get close enough.

"Depends on what you think heaven looks like," Buck countered.

When Buck's arms wrapped around him, and ankles hooked behind his calves, when Buck's face nuzzled demandingly into his neck and the lean hips bucked beneath him, Chris knew they wouldn't be getting much sleep after all.

The End